


Storyteller

by BloodyMary, Shanxara



Series: The Story-Telling Ox [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humour, WAFF, bonding through stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 13:20:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6155008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyMary/pseuds/BloodyMary, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shanxara/pseuds/Shanxara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories have power. Even those whose life will become the stuff of legends can acknowledge that. Sometimes, their power lies in the bond they can create between those of different ages and from different walks of life. Or, at the very least, mean that Adaar can have a nice afternoon with friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Adaar was taking up most of the space between the bookshelves, long legs stretched out as she sat on a cushion. She did not appear to be interested in the world around her at all, totally engrossed in the book she was holding, but when Solas stepped closer, she looked up almost immediately.

“I'm almost sorry the author is long dead,” she said and waved with the book. “How condescending can you get?”

“Very, I believe,” he answered with dry amusement. “May I ask what you are reading?”

She held up the book so he could read the title and the author. Solas arched his eyebrows. “Elvish myths?”

“As described by an insufferable human asshole who made a vow of chastity and it clearly didn't serve him well at all,” Adaar replied and rolled her eyes. “If he doesn't claim the elves misunderstood his god, then he claims that a myth is a metaphor for sex.” She snorted.

“It seems to be a human obsession”, he observed. Which was of course slightly unfair, since all of the sentient races on Thedas managed to obsess about this occasionally. 

Adaar snorted. “Well, they at least cultivate it like a precious flower. Or why else take vows like that?” 

“I wouldn’t know.” But since this conversation was leading nowhere, he decided to change the topic. “You don’t believe in gods, do you?” Solas said, still amused. “So, what do you think do those myths represent?”

Adaar did not answer right away. “Well, they could mean any number of things—stories that explain things that are hard to explain, or the gods could have been like Avvar gods—spirits from the Fade, and then when Tevinter destroyed the old elven empire, they forgot how to communicate with them...” She fell silent for a moment. “But I think they were people. Impressive people, like Andraste, maybe.”

Solas kept his expression carefully neutral, as he digested that. This was much more insightful than he would have expected anyone—let alone a Vashoth mercenary—to guess. 

“Kings and queens?” he asked keeping his tone light.

“Well, the head god and Mythal obviously were, but I guess June was more like a dwarven paragon. I've got no clue what most others could have been—Andruil kind of sounds like Sera only without the bit about protecting the little people and with a lot more asshole.” She chewed her lip for a moment. “Well, okay, I think I might have ideas about Fen'Harel.”

Solas had a very sinking feeling he would not like what came next.

“I think he was a spy, a double agent,” Adaar continued, and Solas couldn't stop himself from staring. “No, really, it makes perfect sense – he belongs to both the Creators and the Forgotten Ones, right? And they were clearly at war. So, who'd belong to both sides, and appear unpredictable and end up looking like the bad guy?”

Perhaps it was not as bad as it could be, but Solas was not really sure what he thought about that particular idea. It seemed that his expression was showing something of what he was feeling, since Adaar gave him a worried look. “So, if you think they are people, why is he called the Dread Wolf?”, he asked, to distract her from her scrutiny. 

“Well, these things are popular? Naming important people after animals.” Adaar grinned. “Horns aside, Iron Bull isn’t a bull, either.” 

Solas sat down on another cushion when she waved to him. Looking down on her was just too unusual, when she was wont to tower over everyone. “He might end up one in a few hundred years, if the story continues to be told and to change”, he reminded her. 

“Well, in that case, I'm surprised no one has claimed Fen'Harel fathered Mabari,” she said. “Since he is depicted as a wolf in the shrines we found. And Mabari are much more intelligent than other dogs which often gets explained by divine influence.” 

Solas had his hand halfway to his forehead, as she demonstrated a rather amazing talent for blundering from one faux-pas into another. 

“Sorry.” He felt Adaar’s hand brush his forearm, keeping him from actually hitting himself. “That was really tactless of me. I mean, they are your gods, whether you worship them or not. I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.”

He swallowed twice before finally lowering his hand. For once, he was at a loss for words and said the first thing that came to mind. “I... actually heard a young elf make this claim, once.” He winced at the memory. “My reaction must have been similar.”

“Did you wear armour?” Adaar gave him a quizzical look, “Is that how you got your scar?”

He grimaced and shrugged, leaving the answer to her imagination. 

“I actually got that one over here similarly,” Adaar replied, grinning again as she pointed to a small split in her eyebrow. “Ashaad Two was... well, let's just say that he knows how to throw a pointy stick, but has no idea about magic, shall we?”

Solas managed a dry smile. “That seems to be a common affliction.”

Adaar snorted. “I want that on a tapestry in the main hall.” She picked herself up and put the book away. “How about we go and get a drink? Iron Bull mentioned something that sounded like you’d like it.“

The elf felt somewhat sceptical, but he accepted the conciliatory gesture. “Why not?” 

The tall woman held out her hand and pulled him up with ease when he took it. “I swear it’s not alcoholic. You will be fine.”


	2. Chapter 2

The door creaked and then clicked, when it closed. Solas heard someone's steps coming closer. That was something of a surprise, since aside from the Inquisitor, visitors had been rare, but the steps had been too soft for the one bearing the title of the Herald. 

Once the visitor passed the threshold of the rotunda, he peered down, leaning away from the half-finished fresco to see who had entered. 

"I'm very sorry to bother you, but could you perhaps hide me from Leliana for a moment? She is trying to protect my virtue again." Ambassador Montilyet asked.

His surprise must have shown on his face, for the young woman stopped on the doorstep. "Forgive me. I shouldn't have intruded. I will leave you to your work." 

A rare impulse made him shake his head. "You are not intruding." Putting the brush away, he sat down on the scaffolding, his legs dangling. "You should be quite safe." Almost involuntarily, his mouth curled slightly in a smile.

The young woman hesitated. For a moment, she was still, but then she looked around the rotunda, gaze stopping at the unfinished images.

"Oh my," she breathed, her eyes widening in awe. "This looks quite amazing."

Solas had heard sentiments like this, from the few visitors to his place. Some were more sincere than others, but he didn't doubt the young woman's genuine fascination.

"Thank you. What happens should not be forgotten. And words will only hold so much meaning, some things cannot be told."

"Not to mention that the sentiment may be lost in writing," the young woman answered and shook her head. She stepped closer and looked up, taking in the scene. "Do you mind if I ask, if you usually paint things of such scope?"

Curiosity, it seemed was not in short supply in the Inquisition. Certainly, the Inquisitor was full of questions, and it appeared a trait she shared with the young diplomat.

"Not in a long time." He considered getting down and decided against it, as she might feel uncomfortable or threatened by the presence of someone who was so many things she would have been warned against. "It feels good to exercise those skills again."

That elicited a small giggle - a soft warm sound. 

"My sister paints," the young woman said, her tone both fond and exasperated. "Or rather tells everyone she does, but lacks the inspiration."

"Inspiration can be very hard to come by," he agreed, recalling the lonely wastes of his youth. "Even imagination has limits when it is not fed."

"Then it is fortunate Lady Adaar has a talent for attracting inspiring events," she said. "Though perhaps not so much for her."

Given that he was painting the fall of Haven, he could understand why one would think that. The Inquisitor had nearly died then, and that had not been the first time in the short time either of them had known her.

"There was a tribe in the Frostbacks, a long time ago. They had a saying 'May you live in interesting times'." He watched her forehead crease in a slight frown. "It was meant to be a curse."

"I suppose that means they did end up finding their own interesting times?" the young woman asked.

"They were wiped out by the emerging Tevinter empire," he agreed. "Unfortunately, if the perspective is long enough, nothing ends well."

The young woman did not answer right away, instead taking time to consider her words. Not surprising at all - choosing the right thing to say was what she was supposed to do. 

"And yet you are here, helping us," she eventually said. "Do you think this will be an exception?"

"I think that the perspective of living people is very different from that of history," he answered gently. "And thus, well capable of ending well."

She nodded. "We have to try, and we have to hope," she said. "Perhaps it's arrogance, but it's better than doing nothing, is it not?"

Solas looked at her—so young, so full of hope—and said, “When faced with a being such as Corypheus, there is no other choice, but to oppose him.”

 

Her neck was starting to hurt a bit from looking up at Solas, but he did not show any intention to climb down any time soon from his spot on the scaffolding. 

“Would you mind if I joined you up there?” she asked. “Leliana might not think to look up there for me, if she comes back.”

"Are you sure? I could come down." He smiled his secret smile at her, almost invisible. She wondered if he was aware of doing that. 

"I am not wearing any formal gown. I can climb a ladder." Really, did she seem to be that spoiled and pampered?

"By all means, then," he said, moving slightly to the side. "And forgive my rudeness, for not inviting you to join me earlier."

She wondered what his reason for that had been--she might not know him well, or at all, but she could tell he was not the kind to do something without a cause. But this was not a question she could--or would--ask of anyone. 

Instead, she climbed up and made herself comfortable.

A silence settled, and after a while the elf took up his brush again. A soft glow played around his fingers as he softened the plaster again, to continue painting. 

She had watched her sister paint before, admired how the normally so chatty woman sometimes became still as her pencil traced lines on the parchment that seemed to be there already, just invisible until Yvette brought them out.

She had to marvel at how dramatic the fresco appeared, even unfinished as it was. Compared with the unassuming figure – so calm and self-contained – of the man who painted it, it was almost eerie. Well, that and the matter it was depicting. 

Josephine shuddered, thinking back to the day when Corypheus and the Red Templars had assaulted Haven.

Partially to distract herself, and partially because she had been curious, she asked, “Do you still tell stories to children?”

"Sometimes." He kept his eyes on his canvas, and added, "But here, you cannot listen to them from your window." 

Josephine was aware she was blushing, although she didn't really know why. After all, listening to stories was not inappropriate. At least, to these stories. The Iron Bull's were a different matter.

“I-I didn't mean to intrude,” she said. “They just sounded so very fascinating.”

"I tell them so people listen." Finally he turned around and looked at her. Once more, this tiny smile ghosted over his face. "You did not intrude. I am glad you enjoyed them."

“Once this is over—will you tell stories about us – I mean the Inquisition, too?” she asked. After all, it was going to be a story to tell, especially if told by one of those who had been part of it.

A darkness passed through his eyes, like a storm cloud. "There will be stories, if we live to see the end or not. There are always stories; they are the ripples our passing leaves."

She wondered if she should ask more, but thought against it. Whatever troubled him, they were not nearly close enough for her to ask him what it was. It would be prying, no matter how well-meant.

“Leliana sometimes talks of the Hero of Ferelden,” she said instead. “Little stories about how King Alistair gave her a rose, and how she'd give him little toy soldiers. Things like that. I guess those stories will die with her, won't they?”

"You just proved that it will not be so." His voice was so soft she had to strain to hear him. "Stories survive the tellers, and even the listeners. They may change, and maybe one day they will not be recognisable anymore, but they do not die."

She wondered then - about him and how he sounded. There was something under the surface, she thought, but she could not be certain. 

"Would you mind telling me a story? Not right now, of course, I wouldn't want to distract you anymore than I already am."

He gave a bow, the sort that a hero in a romantic play would give and she could not help but giggle. "Of course, my lady. But a small favour, as you share my sanctuary... Enlighten me, just what are you hiding from?"

She sighed, somewhat wearily. “Ser Blackwall was kind enough to bring flowers to brighten my study. Leliana took it upon herself to impart on me that I should be careful. Having had this conversation with my mother, I decided I should give her some time to reconsider that course of action.”

"How long will this take?" It could have sounded cranky, but there was the faintest twinkle of humour in those nondescript blue eyes, and Josephine, used to watching people for the tiniest hints to their intentions, wondered how someone could express so much, so quietly.

“I believe I should see the Inquisitor now,” Josephine answered, and offered a smile to him. “But perhaps I could persuade you to visit my office in the future?”

"That might not be wise." Was she imagining that there was a note of regret in his voice? "If Ser Blackwall in your office makes people feel your propriety is threatened, an apostate would not help matters."

"I insist," Josephine answered. "If it helps, I can ask Lady Adaar to act as a chaperone. She will likely find it amusing enough to oblige."

After all, the Inquisitor kept visiting her and Leliana had never raised any objections to that. How a Qunari apostate was less of a threat to her propriety then an elven one, she would never know. Well, perhaps it was the matter of Lady Adaar being the Herald and the Inquisitor.

"That she would." Now he was grinning like an irreverent schoolboy. "In this case, I will gladly accept your invitation."

 

Adaar snorted trying to contain her amusement with very little success. It took her a moment, or even a few, before she nodded. “Sure, why not? He's knows a lot, and isn't as insufferable as Vivienne about it.”

That earned her a look and raised eyebrows from Josephine, and she had to reconsider.

“No, you're right, that's a bad comparison,” she said, plopping down on a convenient chair. It creaked, clearly unprepared for her weight, but that was it. “Anyway, Solas. I can sit by and then write a certificate for Leliana that he didn't do anything apostate-y to you.”

Josephine giggled and shook her head. “I'm sure this won't be necessary.”

“So am I,” Adaar answered and shrugged. “I tried to imagine him doing something untoward once, and all I managed was him stealing pie. Which reminds me – you could get some of those cakes from Orlais, the ones that every one says are frilly.”

Josephine gave her a slightly puzzled look, before answering. “I could—I didn't know you like them?”

“Never tried any,” Adaar replied. Belatedly, she realized she did not say for whom the cakes would be. “Solas said he likes them. Oh, and he doesn't like tea. He gets this long-suffering expression if he has to drink it and I swear I saw him pour half a jar of honey into his mug once. He does like cocoa—I had Bull give him some.”


	3. Chapter 3

As far as Adaar was concerned playing chaperone wasn't a terrible waste of time on this particular occasion. Not that she had any experience in the matter whatsover, but she could imagine a situation where it would be tedious, boring and a number of other, less polite, words.

The frilly cakes were nice—not warranting the fuss that was being made about them, but enjoyable. Still, she was not about to voice that—it would be really counterproductive.

“So, did you learn if ancient elves liked sweets in your travels in the Fade?” Adaar asked. Okay, she was teasing him somewhat, but only a bit. 

Solas appeared to take it in his stride. “It varied from individual to individual, I assume. Like with any folk.” He paused, and that small smile of his made an appearance. “Although, I do remember something concerning sweets I saw in the Fade—I think you might be familiar with the dessert, Ambassador Montilyet—crepes served with a liqueur while on fire?”

Adaar gave him a disbelieving look. “That sounds moronic.”

“Oh, they don't burn them, Inquisitor,” Josephine clarified. “It's only the alcohol that is burning.”

Adaar still wasn't convinced about the idea, but decided not to mention that also sounded like waste of good alcohol to her. Unless it was horrible alcohol, then good riddance. “So, who came up with that?”

“There's a story about it,” Josephine said. “It's supposed to have been an apprentice cook at the court of Empress Yvette, who managed to convince her that he did not set the sauce on fire accidentally, and that it was a new recipe.”

Adaar shook her head. “And she believed that excuse?”

“I've seen something similar happen in the Fade—a young apprentice prepared a cake for a special occasion,” Solas said. “He was a slave, and as it was successful, his master wanted to profit from it. But the cook who had trained him had a different master, and she too wanted to profit. Their families and allies were pulled into the dispute, and soon, it was an armed conflict.”

“Well, that sounds a lot like what I've heard of Tevinter,” Adaar said. 

“And quite like Orlais, too,” Josephine said and sighed.

“Actually, I think I heard another story about dessert once,” Adaar said. “Now, do I remember it? There's this upside down cake with apples—and apparently some absent-minded cook put a regular one upside down into a pot—you make them in pots, by the way—and it came out amazing. I wonder how come none of these stories ever have someone just experimenting, and it's always an accident.”

“Maybe because that lacks dramatic tension?” Josephine suggested.

“Cooking is a very traditional craft. Aside from very specific circumstances, experimentation is seen as frivolous, a potential waste of food most people do not have to waste”, Solas pointed out. He took another bite of the frilly cake with its pink topping of cream and somehow managed not to end up smearing it all across his nose. 

Adaar was quite certain she would not be able to manage the same, and opted to use a tiny spoon. It was probably meant for humans, and it sort of disappeared inside her hand, but then a lot of things were made for humans (or elves), and she had learned how to make up for that.

“At worst you'd end up with something not very tasty though,” she pointed out. “That's hardly a large risk. Well, unless you burn it.”

"But that is the point, isn't it? Why risk getting something not very tasty you still have to eat when you could have just done it like it was always done and end up with something that you know will work?"

Adaar laughed. “And so we arrive at philosophical lessons about tradition, Solas?”

"If you wish to?" There was a mischievous twinkle in the elf's grey eyes.

“Probably not.” She smiled, seeing that Josephine began to look a bit worried. “That sounds like work, especially for you.” She took another fork-full of her cake and added, “Speaking of work, you were supposed to tell some story, weren't you?”

“Please do not talk with your mouth full, Inquisitor,” Josephine said, smiling to take away the barb. “We wouldn't want you spitting out food on our visitors.”

Adaar sighed. Manners were so much more idiotically complex with nobility. Well, she probably shouldn't waste good food...

Solas inclined his head. “A story it shall be then.” He turned his face into a studied frown and set down the half eaten cake. “Any special topics you were looking for, my Lady?”

Josephine fell silent for a moment, her face taking on a thoughtful aspect, before she grinned. “Romance?”

“Your wish is my command, my lady.” He gave a bow, which was mostly awkward given he was seated and there was a plate on his lap. Then, his eyes went distant, as if he was watching something that only he could see. His voice dipped lower, taking on a dreamlike quality.

“Deep in the dark forest, there was a castle where an old sorceress lived. During the day, she changed into a cat or a wolf, roaming the woods. At night, she called the deer and rabbits to her and she slaughtered and cooked them. If a human came to her castle, he had to stand still without moving until she released them. But if a virgin came to her, she changed them into a nightingale and imprisoned them in a cage. She had a thousand of such rare birds in her towers.”

Adaar decided not to mention that clearly the sorceress had to be human, given the obsession with virginity. It would be slightly redundant, and spoil the story. And she was definitely not going to mention the mess a thousand rare birds would make.

“Once, a young couple was lost in the dark forest. As soon as they realized, a fear fell upon them and they started sobbing helplessly,” Solas continued. “For the maid was young and beautiful, and had naught but kisses stolen from her. The young man begged her not to stray close to the castle, knowing what fate would await her there.”

Josephine took a sharp breath, her eyes wide, clearly taken in by the story. 

“But it was too late.”

Somehow that did not surprise Adaar at all. Did it occur to no one to gather a group of people who had sex at least once, give them something sharp and storm the castle?

“For they saw the crumbling wall of one of the towers, and the song the maid had been singing turned from words into the twittering of a nightingale. The young man stood paralysed, not knowing what to do, when from the nearby bushes, the witch emerged and snatched the nightingale away.”

Josephine’s eyes went wide. “Oh.” 

“And the young man stood there, scared and lost, his limbs bound by the witch’s dread spell, and he had to helplessly watch as she carried the girl away.” Solas lowered his voice, letting the thought ripen in their brains that the young man might stand there and starve, before continuing: “Just before she disappeared, the sorceress unspelled him and he tumbled to the ground and wept.”

Adaar nearly started voicing her complaints, but she managed to notice Josephine still looking enchanted and anxious. Really, it would be like kicking a puppy. 

“Eventually, he was too tired to cry, so he rose and blindly stumbled forward. He walked, and walked, until finally, he found a village. He found work as a shepherd, and spent nights and days dreaming of his lost love caught in a cage. Until one night, he dreamt of a wondrous flower with a pearl hidden inside it. The next morning, he set out into the forest and there, as if waiting for him, the very flower he had dreamed of stood in a circle of trees.”

Adaar decided not to point out how fucking convenient that was, because the answer would probably be “a helpful spirit intervened” and that was sort of an argument impossible to refute. 

“Inside the flower, there was a drop of dew, glittering in the morning sun like a pearl. The young man plucked the flower, and carried it day and night, until he reached the spot where the witch had cast her spell upon him. But this time, no spell caught his limbs, and so he reached the castle door. As soon as he touched it with the flower, it opened before him, and he could enter. There he stopped to listen, if he could hear his beloved's song. And there, among the many bird songs, was her twitter, so he followed the sound to its source. But the witch was waiting for him there too.”

Josephine gasped.

“She spit spells and poison at him but the flower protected him and nothing happened. She ran at him to draw her claws through his face, but two steps from him she faltered. He reached out and touched one of the birds with the flower, and it changed into a girl. But she was not his beloved. And there were so many birds. How would he ever find her?”

Adaar valiantly fought the urge to say that if his amazing flower of plot convenience didn't help him, it would be very weird. 

“Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the witch move—she was trying to sneak away with one of the cages. Quickly, he grabbed her and touched her with the flower. It sapped all of her magic, and where the caged bird had been, now his beloved stood. In fact, all of the birds were given their forms back, their voices words instead of birdsong again.” Solas smiled. “And his beloved placed her arms around his neck and he held her and then they went home.” 

There was a wistful sadness to his expression, and Adaar wasn’t surprised to notice that Josie delicately dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “That was wonderful. Thank you.”

The elf modestly inclined his head, which was rather at odds with the effortless showmanship he showed before. 

“It was... different from the stories I used to hear,” Adaar said. 

“Do you know any stories of romance, Inquisitor?” Josephine asked. “Would you tell one?”

Well. That Adaar had not expected. Her first instinct was to deny knowing any, but well, disappointing Josephine was a special kind of mean. So she fished around her memory and finally found something that probably counted as romance.

“My teacher told me one, when I was... oh, I must have gotten my first period and had the worst cramps in my life,” she said. “He had heard it from an old elven woman in the alienage in Kirkwall.”

It was really weird that she still remembered it. “Once upon a time, there lived a magister. He wanted for nothing and cared for nothing except for hunting. But he was an abysmal hunter—he never managed to catch anything, not even a single rabbit.”

Solas started eating his cake again, his expression thoughtful.

“One day, his servants told him of a great hunter,” Adaar continued. “So, he had the man, his wife and son brought before him. He bade the hunter to stay with him—he'd clothe and feed him, and his family, as long as he hunted for him.”

“The hunter agreed, and so for a while, the magister was happy. But one day, he had grown bored, and told the hunter that now, he'd have to hunt his own wife. He had them sent to the forest—but the hunter would not kill his love. He killed himself rather than do it.”

Josephine gasped, her eyes widening in horror. Solas, on the other hand, appeared to be unsurprised. Well, given that the story featured a magister, Adaar supposed that cruelty was to be expected.

“The wife returned, and the magister decided that if he had no hunter, his wife would do. He sent her to hunt into the woods, until one day, he had grown bored again. He told the wife, that she would have to hunt her own child and had them sent to the forest—but the wife would not kill her child and slit her own throat.”

Adaar paused to take a sip of her tea, before continuing the story.

“The boy returned alone, and the magister decided that he would have to do. The boy slept in the kennels with his dogs, and hunted for the magister for years, until he was a grown man. The magister's slaves and servants feared him, for he was more hound than man in nature, but the magister cared little for it.”

“Then, one day, the hunter's son met a she-boar with young ones. She was huge and fierce, and she nearly killed him. The magister left, though his magic could surely have restored the young man to health.”

Adaar was quite surprised that neither Solas nor Josephine had asked her where the romance was. Well, she supposed they were both too polite for that.

“But there was another in the forest—a young elven sorceress, with skin dark as wood and hair as bright as fire. She found the hunter's son, and bound his wounds and took him to her to her hut, where she nursed him to health.”

Josephine leaned a bit more forward, her chin resting on her hand as she listened. 

“One day, she asked him, why he had not fled the magister—he knew the woods and he knew how to hunt. And the young man did not know how to answer.”

The young woman frowned, but did not interrupt. 

“Weeks passed, and though the hunter's son was healthy he had not left the sorceress side. It was the first time in years since anyone had been kind to him, and he did not know what else to do except go back to the magister.”

“But then, once a full month had passed, the magister found the sorceress's hut and the hunter's son. He gave the young man a sword, and told him to kill the sorceress for him. And the hunter's son knew he had only dreamed he had escaped his fate—he was the one who was more hound than man, and he was meant to serve his master.”

That elicited another horrified gasp from Josephine. Solas, on the other hand, did not appear surprised by that development either.

“He took the sword and turned against the sorceress—but though he was strong, she was quick, and he had merely grazed her. Blood flowed down her cheek, and the sorceress called on her power—but she did not strike down the hunter's son—she killed the magister instead.”

“Horrified at what he had done, the hunter's son tried to kill himself, but the sorceress would have none of it. She grabbed his hands and held them until he let go of the sword. Then, she said:

“Don't. You are not at fault for what was done to you—you may have never been bound with iron, but the chains around a heart and soul are so much harder to break. And you will never break yours, if you kill yourself. But if you live, I can help you learn how to be free.”

“And so, the hunter's son stayed.”

The room had fallen silent. Josephine seemed close to tears. Solas only nodded. At first, Adaar was surprised that he had no comment. Nothing observant to say. Then she realised that not only had he stop eating his cake at some point, but he had also crumbled the rest of it into tiny pieces, fit only for birds, without seemingly noticing. Aware of her scrutiny, he looked away. 

“Was it wrong of me to tell this story?” she asked. “I apologise if I caused offence.” It was an elven story, after all—but this seemed to have affected him more than merely being about elves enduring horror.

“It is a good story”, he said, curling his lips into a polite smile that did nothing to distract from the emptiness in his eyes. “True. Not in the sense that these specific people ever existed, but the theme it contains, the message it imparts, it is important and very hard to accept.” 

Adaar put a hand on his shoulder. “But at the same time, it gives you hope, no? That no matter what you've been through, you can heal. And there will be people who will help you.”

Solas looked from her to Josie, who was hovering at the edge of her seat, eyes wide. His smile became more genuine, and a little self-deprecating. “Are you going to fuss over me now?” he asked. There was the merest hint of irony in his tone, but mostly he seemed just a little confused. 

“Have you ever seen me fuss over anyone?” Adaar laughed. “But here, take my cake. I think I fed my sweet tooth enough for today.”

“No, no, no”, Josephine protested. “Inquisitor, that’s your cake. I am sure you are still growing. I’ll have some more brought from the kitchen.” Very hesitantly, she reached out and took Solas’s hand when he made no move to evade her. “And it’s not called fussing. It’s called taking care of a friend.”

Solas appeared to be quite surprised and touched, and equally hesitantly squeezed Josephine's hand back. Adaar gave his shoulder one more reassuring pat and he seemed to relax again. Willing to lighten the mood some more, she said: “So, Josephine, it seems you're the only one who did not tell a story yet.”

The ambassador blushed. “Oh my.” Then she caught herself and nodded graciously, every inch the perfect diplomat and host. “I will organise more cake. And then I am going to tell a story, if you would like to hear one.” She gave Adaar and Solas one more appraising look, then got up to call for a servant. 

 

About thirty minutes and a convoluted tale of star crossed lovers and prickly families later, Adaar felt tears stream down her face because she was laughing so hard. Mischief danced in Josephine’s eyes as she finished her story. 

“And then Rianna’s father agreed to Corvin’s suit, on the condition that neither nugs nor cherries would ever be mentioned in his presence again. And the pirate and the dowager eloped the day before Rianna’s wedding, and they would send them a cherry pie for each anniversary, just so the Viscount didn’t forget.”

Looking deceptively serious, she added: “I have it on good authority that is was always a very good pie.” 

Solas was also laughing, though he was much more restrained than Adaar. Well, he generally was much more restrained than Adaar, so this was no surprise. But clearly, Josephine's choice of story was what he had needed to improve his mood after the Inquisitor’s sombre tale. 

“I think I liked the part where the maid dresses the butler into a suit of armour made of fans,” Adaar said. “I'd never had thought that sort of thing would actually make sense, but here it does.”

“Never underestimate Antivans when their honor is at stake”, Josephine answered with a chuckle. She took the last cake from the platter and daintily nibbled it. “They can be most creative when their back is to the wall.”

“I'll remember that,” Adaar replied. “I should introduce you to Shokrakar, one day. She'd appreciate that story, I think.”

“I would be excited to meet her.” Josephine smiled. “She sounds like someone who'd have a lot of her own stories to tell.”

Adaar knew for a fact this was true. She also knew that polite society would probably crumble if exposed to them. Ah, well, if it did, at least it'd be amusing to watch. Besides, she might have underestimated Josephine. Sometimes, highborn ladies were a lot less delicate than they claimed to be.

"I'll introduce you once this is over."


End file.
